


The View from Vic's

by VivWiley



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivWiley/pseuds/VivWiley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Aretha Franklin." </p><p>"I beg your pardon?"</p><p>"Aretha Franklin."  She articulated the words carefully, syllable by syllable. "The answer to the question you're not asking me is 'Aretha Franklin'."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The View from Vic's

"Aretha Franklin." 

"I beg your pardon?"

"Aretha Franklin." She articulated the words carefully, syllable by syllable. "The answer to the question you're not asking me is 'Aretha Franklin'." The petite redhead actually sounded amused rather than drunk, but I had to wonder.

"Really?" I tried to keep my tone level, professionally friendly, all the while quietly sizing her up, trying to decide if I was going to have to call Island Cab to take her back to whatever hotel it was she was staying at.

"Yup. The reason I'm here. The reason a nice girl like me is in a place like this... It's all Aretha's fault." She started to lapse into silence, clearly seeing something far away from my beachfront bar. Then she shook herself and looked back at me with blue eyes that contained the contradiction of ocean warmth and arctic frost, neither of which disguised the laser sharp intelligence of the speaker. 

"You ever really listened to Aretha Franklin? Really heard her sing 'Respect,' or 'Chain of Fools,' or most dangerous of all 'Think?' Well I did. Just yesterday. Sitting there on the Beltway, stuck in traffic once more, I popped in a cassette. Aretha's Greatest Hits. Seemed innocent enough, a little soul to keep me company while I waited for the Staties to move the latest fender-bender to the side of the road." 

She stopped for a moment and finished her mai tai. Her second. She looked at the empty glass consideringly for a moment and then ordered her third.

I have to confess I was intrigued. I've been running this bar in this little tourist town for almost seven years now. In that time, I've seen a lot of tourists wander in here. They come from all over. But no matter where they've come from--Britain, Germany, the U.S. --there's a certain similarity to their expressions. They are weary in some way and have come to this island to seek peace. Maybe it's the beaches, maybe the lure of the "tropics," or maybe it's just being somewhere that isn't home -- someplace different. 

By the time they hit my bar - Vic's Bar and View - they are seeking something else entirely. They're seeking a way to get away from themselves because they've discovered that no matter how far you travel, you still carry yourself with you. You can't ever escape that nagging voice in your head. 

Vic. That's me. Short for Vicky, short for Victoria. Just short. That's me, too. I came here 8 years ago seeking to get away and just never left. Turns out that away was good for me, and that sometimes you can leave yourself, or at least your name and face on post office posters...but that's another story.

Back to the redhead at the bar with the Aretha Franklin troubles.

I'd known right away there was something different about her. Everything from the way she walked in, to the way she was dressed. She wasn't a vacationer, but she wasn't an islander, either. No tan yet, or sunburn. She looked lost, but in a different way. There was something about her--the way she carried herself--that set off alarms in my brain, but I couldn't quite place it.

I'd served her the first two mai tais with a minimum of conversation. She'd seemed surprised to find an American behind the bar--I don't look particularly American, but the accent still gives me away. Her surprise disappeared as quickly as it flashed across her face. She seemed like she was used to taking the unexpected in stride.

I'd found out her name was Dana and that she'd just gotten here last night, and she wasn't sure when she was going back. That was sort of weird in and of itself, but sometimes people came with open-ended tickets. Still, she seemed like the sort who usually had everything organized down to the last second.

As I served her the third mai tai, I prompted her to continue. "So what did Aretha do to you?"

"Well, there I was, singing along -- you know, the way you do in a closed up car -- and all of sudden, I really heard the words. I felt them somewhere in my gut." She paused to give a funny sort of laugh. "Ok, so it's not like I'm a soul diva, but I felt them. There I was, wailing along that he'd better "think," and I meant it. I really, really meant it."

He, eh? The plot was definitely thickening. "Who's this he?" I tried to sound nonchalant, didn't want to spook her.

"He? Did I say..." She laughed again. I had the feeling that she didn't laugh much. "Yeah, he. My pa...... Him. See, here's what happened. First song that really got me going was 'Respect.' I mean I know he respects me and all, but as I was singing along yesterday, I heard the words in a whole new way. I finally understood that there's respect and there's Respect, and he tends to forget that, or at least to show it. I was mulling that over, and then 'Chain of Fools' started. Great song...great driving tune, but man, just the wrong thing for me yesterday. Or maybe the right thing." 

I leaned back against the wall behind the bar and watched her get lost in the moment.

"A chain of fools. It's so fucking appropriate. Five years no less. Five fucking years." She was petite and tailored, but she could swear like a sailor. No hesitation or blushing for her - the words just flowed right on out as she continued.

"And me--just one more link. Just one more goddamn link. I suppose I should be grateful that at least I'm an alive link." She took a gulp of her drink, but the hand that lowered the glass was rock solid steady.

"It was 'Think' that really got me. That was when it happened. That stupid jerk just never thinks at all. He just goes charging off after his stupid conspiracies and leaves me to face Skinner and all the bureaucratic music. Well, I've had it. I've finally had it." The steely rage in her voice was a little frightening. I was extremely glad I wasn't the 'he,' she talked about, and just hoped that 'he' had the good sense to be a long way from here.

There was more, though, I could tell.

Her voice dropped as she continued. "But that's not all of course. If it was just that, I could request a transfer. A new partner. I mean I'm a damn fine agent--even he knows it--I could work anywhere in the Bureau." 

Partner? Bureau? Oh mother of god. That's when it hit me. A Fibbie....she's a United States Department of Justice Agent with the Oh My God FBI. My heart rate stepped up about a thousand percent while I desperately tried to remember where I'd stashed that extra passport, and the suitcase with the.....but she was going on like she had no reason to be here except to drink my exceptional mai tais. I relaxed marginally, but kept an ear out for footsteps on the porch behind me, for unusual shadows under the door.

"No, that isn't the major problem. The major problem is that Mul...my partner, has the distinction of being the only man I have found even remotely interesting in the last 5 years, and now he knows it. Do I need this shit? No, I do not." She looked morosely at the dregs of her third drink as though she could read some horrible future in the fruit shards at the bottom of the glass.

Men. It always comes down to men, doesn't it? My voice was gentle. "So you slipped and told him something you shouldn't have and now you've run away to the Island?"

Her head snapped up. "I. Did. Not. Run. Away." I shivered in the arctic wind that suddenly ripped through my bar. Then she softened a bit. "Ok, maybe I ran away a little bit."

"What happened?" By now I was really curious. My paranoia notched down a fraction. No "cover story" could be this real. And I was dying to know exactly what it was that Ms. Agent had done. She seemed far too controlled to have really lost it. 

"Well, there I was, singing along to Aretha, and I suddenly knew. I just knew that I couldn't keep all this....emotion....bottled up inside of me any more. Sometimes it's just gotta give way, you know?"

Looking over her tailored linen shorts and neatly pressed camp shirt, I had no doubt that FBI Dana tended to keep things very neat and orderly. And bottled up. I wondered, though. With that red hair and the flash of steel I'd already seen once or twice, I bet when she blew, people ran for cover. I idly wondered if this partner of hers was actually still alive somewhere.

"By the time I reached the office, I'd gone long past the point of reason. All I could hear was Aretha--that strong, undeniable voice of a weary woman who isn't going to take it any more. Ever. I stormed into our office, and my partner had the misfortune of being there." She shook her head ruefully.

"Boy, was he ever there. Wearing those damn glasses, no less. He started in on me, as usual. Bugging me about being late, in that teasing, slightly innuendo-y way he has that gets under my skin in ways I never let on, only I think he actually knows, which is why he keeps doing it...." 

I handed her a fourth mai tai before she even asked. As little as she was, and given that I hadn't seen her eat so much as a peanut since she came in here, she certainly seemed to be holding her liquor well.

"I cut him off mid-sentence. I can't even remember the first thing I said to him. Just that it shut him up pretty effectively. Then I got going. Jesus. I said it all, every last damn thing I've suppressed during the past 5 years. Every time he's gone around me, every time he's ditched me, every time I've had to explain to Skinner why we're having to requisition another stupid cellular phone. He's the one with the photographic memory, but damn if I can't dredge that stuff up when I need it."

She looked up at me, and seemed surprised to realize that she was actually talking out loud. Telling something that probably figured she'd never mention again. I simply looked back. Seven years of tending bar teaches you to wear a quietly sympathetic face that doesn't judge and doesn't ask too many questions. Apparently though, my basic curiosity shone through, because she did keep going.

"I have to say that I don't think he was really all that surprised. He just sat there, sort of nodding. Looking just a tiny bit sheepish. He had the good sense not to look amused, anyway. But then I fucked up." She paused for emphasis. "Then I fucked up big time."

"You told him how you feel?"

Months from now I'll still be bleeding from the wound I got from that glare.

"No. Oh no. Nothing that simple." She swigged down her drink. Seeming to need the alcoholic courage to even relive the memory. "Nope. Nothing that simple at all. Dana Scully never does anything half-way. Uh uh. No Sir." She closed her eyes, and her voice dropped to a whisper.

"No. I after I finished shouting at him about every stupid thing he's ever done during the course of our partnership, I, and I remember these words quite distinctly, I said, 'And to top it all off, you bastard, you had to go and make me feel like this.' Then I showed him how I feel. I grabbed him by his Armani lapels, and I planted my lips over his and I showed him."

She blushed, her fair skin, still untanned by the sun of our island, turning a vivid red in the afternoon light. I could barely hear her. "And of course it was good. It was so goddamn good. It figures the man would know how to kiss like nobody's business. It just figures." Her sigh shook her whole body.

"After I planted that kiss on him, he laid one back on me. I honestly thought I was going to pass out from oxygen deprivation, just because it was so goddamn good. But, I happened to find my legs first, so I turned on my heel, stalked out of our office, caught the first cab I could find to Dulles Airport, and here I am."

Quite a story. I wondered how it was going to end, because sure as death and taxes, there was going to be more.

"You can't hide here forever." Right, I was a good one to be giving that advice, but in general it was true.

"Oh yeah?" Just the slightest blur to her tone now, and I realized the mai tais might have had more impact than I thought.

"Look. Do you really love him?" 

"No. Yes. I don't know. No, that's a lie. I do know...." she trailed off disconsolately. "It's why I'm here. I just needed to get away. The plane here was the first international flight I could catch."

"But you're going to go back, right?"

"Probably. I don't seem to have a lot of choice where that man is concerned. But dammit, I just hate this....."

That was when he walked in. Hate to steal the line, but I've got no choice. Of all the gin joints, in all the stinking world, why did he have to walk into this one? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I knew right away that the dark, lanky guy was Dana's "he." I also knew that I was about to be catching an outbound plane.

He threw a glance at me that lingered, and I could see that foxy little brain of his gearing up, trying to pinpoint me. The blond hair and completely different wardrobe no doubt threw him, as did the fact that Dana was facing him, looking for all the world like a deer caught in headlights. After that first look at me, he looked nowhere but at her.

He looked weary and worried. Like he'd flown here on his own power, fueled simply by his need for her and by his fear of losing her.

For all her words this evening, and even as she drew in a startled gasp as she first saw him, there was a glow that suffused through her as she studied his face.

I watched the connection arc between them like something out of a cheap paperback romance. Well, at least I knew how it was going to end.

"Scully?" I could hear the pleading in the near whisper.

"Mulder." Wariness and resignation were drowned out by the acceptance in that single word.

Mulder. Fox William effing Mulder.

Gotta run. It's been a pleasure serving you, but it's closing time. 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to a list serve (yes a list serve!!) in 1998. One of my first forays into outsider POVs and/or humor.


End file.
